


Pompeii

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: The Death of Draco Malfoy [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Death, Draco's Trial, Guilt, POV Second Person, Pompeii, Prison, Second War with Voldemort, Suffering, The Death Of Draco Malfoy, wizarding war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in the end of the war and the trials that follow, from the eyes of Draco Malfoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pompeii

**Author's Note:**

> This was super labor intensive, but I am pleased with how it turned out. Thank you to the flawless Unkissed, for the encouragment and for being my muse. 
> 
> Have you guessed the album yet? This should be a dead giveaway. ;)

There is a layer of smoke clinging to the ground that is so thick you can feel it swirling around your legs as you move through it. The air is acrid; the stench of blood and death hang like torn sheets in the rain and you cannot stop the involuntary shudder that racks your entire body violently. You want to get out; remove yourself from the realization of what is happening all around you and yet you cannot find it in you to move at all. Your mother’s hand is wrapped around your hand and you can feel layers of dirt and debris trapped between her skin and yours. Your eyes burn like they are caked with black soot and you tell yourself that it is because of the smoke.

 

But you know better than that.

 

Your little party of three seems horribly out of place in the middle of the chaos that surrounds you and threatens to swallow you and you bite back a strangled whimper as someone you do not know carries a body past you in a hurry. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a corpse, you shouldn’t be so horrified; but you are. A good portion of the steadily amassing dead are students, and it sickens you that you still stand while so many others have fallen. Your mother’s fingers are curling tightly into your shoulders and turning you around firmly and as you stare at her, wild-eyed and confused, she smiles so softly that you hardly notice the smudges of dirt on her face.  When she pulls you against her you go without a fight and you sink into her embrace and close your eyes and wish to be anywhere but here.

 

The aftermath is like orchestrated chaos and it seems like everywhere you turn someone is crying or shouting or staring off in a daze that you can relate to. It is a long time before anyone bothers to look your direction at all and when you are finally escorted off the grounds of the burning remains of Hogwarts, your head is bowed and your wrists are magically cuffed together.  Your eyes are red and focused on your feet and you don’t even hear the hushed whispers as you pass by. You are taken to a temporary holding cell at the Ministry before you are transported to Azkaban and when cold and firm hands force you out of your mother’s grasp for the last time, you do your best not to cry, even though you are absolutely terrified.

 

The last thing you see is your mother’s face as she tries desperately to smile and you tell yourself that it’s not fear that you see written across her face.

 

Azkaban is nothing like you imagined it would be and you find yourself huddled in the corner of your cell and wishing for death. It’s cold and dirty and the solitude makes you feel like you are slowly slipping into madness. You hear nothing of the outside world during your stay and no one speaks to you aside from a guard who calls you _traitor_ when he brings you food that you do not eat. There is a constant and biting wind that blows through the entire place and you find yourself casually pondering how cold you have to be before you freeze up entirely. The only time you sleep during your entire stay is when you slip into unwilling and fitful bouts of unconsciousness that are riddled with dark images and horrifying reminders; all of which will stay with you for a long, long time.

 

Three days.

 

That is how long you are incarcerated in the prison before you are released to your mother. You are to stay within the walls of Malfoy manor while you await trial and for the duration; your father is not so lucky. She is waiting for you when they escort you out of your cell and when you see her you want to fall apart, but the gentle pleading in her eyes tells you to wait until you get home; and you do.

 

 

When you return to the manor you are immediately helped into the bathe, where you will scrub your skin until it is red and raw; the stains never come off, no matter how hard you try.

 

The next handful of days you spend hiding in the shadows of the manor; scared to step into the light for fear of being caught, but what you don’t realize yet is that you’ve already been caught. When you step out onto the balcony you feel numb even though it is uncommonly warm for the season. You stare out over the grounds and if you squint you can just make out the shining surface of the lake in the distance. When you close your eyes it’s easy to pretend that you’ve been here before and that this is any other night beneath the stars; almost. You can lose yourself in the memories of better times and for just a moment; you don’t have to face your future.

 

You’re mostly left to your own devices and days pass by in the blink of an eye with nothing to show for it except your shame and the threat that hangs over your head like rolling clouds that bring nothing but darkness. Your mother is busy sending owls and fire-calling various Ministry officials; her efforts are split between you and your father, who still remains locked up in Azkaban. You can’t eat and you are terrified to sleep. Every waking thought you possess is a replay of the events leading up to where you now stand, you cannot even begin to imagine what your nightmares would be like.

 

A part of you wishes you were still back in your cell; it is certainly where you belong.

 

It is five days before your mother sits you down in the Library to talk. She’s tried to give you some time to decompress and let the dust settle, but now she’s worried about you and it sounds like a record on repeat and you almost want to laugh at the irony. She holds your hand and tells you that everything will be okay and this time you do laugh, although it sounds more like a strangled grunt than anything else. The brief flash of pain in her expression feels like tiny knives in the scars of your heart and you think that you would cry, if you could. You want to be as optimistic as she is, but you don’t know how and so you say nothing instead.

 

The trials sneak up on you and before you know it you find yourself magically bound to a massive armed chair in the center of a circular courtroom. Death eater trials generally draw in large crowds and yours is the largest yet. Everywhere you turn you see sets of eyes focused on you and you swallow around the obstruction in your throat and hope it is over soon.

 

The list of crimes is long and painful to listen to, each offense spoken loudly and clearly for the entire courtroom to hear.  No matter how hard you try, you cannot stop yourself from flinching each time the Chief Warlock’s voice resonates around the room and your gaze remains on your mother through the entirety of the reading. Your mother’s eyes are the palest blue you have ever seen.  At first glance they almost appear translucent; the color nearly blending into the soft whiteness that surrounds her irises. Now they were glassy and her lids were red and a single tear was rolling from the corner of her eye that she did not swipe away, allowing it instead, to drop onto her cloaked lap.

 

You cannot say that this is the first time you have been magically bound, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying than it is right now—Sitting in the middle of a room full of people with countless harsh gazes fixed on you, wishing for your imprisonment. It is only your upbringing that keeps you from crying out, or even making a sound at all. Your frame sags in the chair and your head drops as hushed whispers break out around the courtroom.

 

This is it. You tell yourself it is done and that you are not lucky enough to be graced with a pardon and you will rot on Azkaban Island where you most certainly belong.

 

The Chief Warlock calls for silence with a wave of his hand that you don’t see, although the sudden silence isn’t missed.  After another moment or two you lift your head and your eyes immediately lock on your mother; you can’t bear to look anywhere else. She’s gazing back at you with the smallest smile, soothing you silently from the inside out. Your name is called and you reluctantly tear your gaze from her and turn (what you hope) is a collected expression on the court.

 

You are guilty.

 

Everyone in this room knows as well as you do that you are guilty of every single one of these horrible acts. 

 

When the Chief warlock addresses you, you hold your head high with a confidence that you do not feel and when you are unshackled and lead out of the courtroom you heave a quiet sigh of relief. You sit inside another temporary holding cell for 28 hours, although you have no idea how long it actually is without a watch or even someone to ask. The guard who brings you your meals isn’t nearly as intimidating as the one back at Azkaban and the food at least appears marginally better, even if you don’t eat a thing. Once again you huddle in the corner of your cell and you find yourself drifting between consciousness and fitful sleep. When you are finally taken out of the cell every muscle you possess aches and you say nothing as you are led back into the courtroom. Again the room is filled to capacity and you spot your mother sitting off to the side in the very first row. She offers you an encouraging smile and you even manage one back. Hell, if you’re going to Azkaban for the rest of your life, you might as well keep it together and make her as happy as you can before you go.

 

When the Chief Warlock one again addresses you, you hold your head high and await his sentence. You are not even close to prepared for what he says instead and you are struck mute—You are the only one who is quiet in the entire courtroom, even your mother let out a little yelp of relief.

 

The aftermath is a chaotic mess and you are escorted from the room at once, although this time your mother is allowed to come with you. When her hand wraps around yours it feels familiar and speaks of home and you are still in shock.

 

Despite it all, you are a free man, at least in the eyes of the Ministry—You will not be free from the burden of your guilt for many years to come.

 

In the weeks that follow, your father’s trial is held along with several other prominent and well known Death Eaters. He receives a shortened sentence, but is nowhere near as lucky as you. A part of you wishes you could trade places with him, if only to try and absolve yourself of the horrible feelings of guilt and self-loathing that you carry around with you everywhere you go.

 

You are your own worst enemy and you always will be.

 

The manor is a quiet comfort after the war and you find yourself unwilling to stray very far from its enveloping folds. Your days are spent in the library and your nights are spent on the balcony of your bedroom, where you stare out over the grounds and all of the things that you are afraid to soil with your stain. When you close your eyes it almost feels like nothing has changed at all and you wish you could keep them closed forever.

 

It is two months before you step foot outside of your familial home and another three weeks before you can stray far enough to make it to the lake; you steer far and clear of your mother’s garden. You haven’t been in there since you were a child, and you had no intention of returning to it anytime soon.

 

By the time your father returns from Azkaban you are able to pull off a passable enough functioning mask. Your father doesn’t speak and the haunted expression that is constantly readable behind his eyes never leaves him for the remainder of his life. Your mother is thrilled to have him home and you are happy that she is happy.  When she gently inquires about your plans for your future one morning over tea you nearly choke and your gaze immediately cuts to you father, who is staring at the teaspoon in his hand like it’s something offensive.

 

Before you have time to stop and take a breath your mother has began seeking out suitable brides for you and you feel sick and powerless.

 

There was the briefest moment when you thought your life would be your own now that the war was over and slowly, you are realizing that it has never been your life, and it probably never will be.

 

 

 

 


End file.
